Who We Are

Yet another rant, a vent of frustration to try to reconcile an experience. One side of me — the spoiled, arrogant, take-everything-for-granted white male, first world side of me – continues responding to the coronavirus actions as though everything is alright with the world and is thus annoyed, I tell you, peeved, even, about things like one day delivery requiring six days. “What in the world is with that?” that side cries in anger and despair.

The other side of me replies, “Dude, you are a jackass.”

The event in focus is my pecker meds (Tamsulosin). I always get it locally, thirty day supply. But with shit going down, I thought it prudent to get a larger supply.

First, I tried ordering it ahead of time at my regular place, Ashland Drugs. Nope, it was too soon, the system said. By then, shutdowns were announced, so I shifted to Express Scripts.

Well, there were delays. My prescription was for thirty days and I was asking for a supply of ninety days. ES contacted my prescribing urologist for approval. He, they said, in updates on their website, didn’t respond. A day passed. Two. I shifted the order to one day shipping, because I could see that this was gonna take more time than planned. Then I called the urologist’s office and explained what was going on and what needed to be done.

That worked. Presto, order was being processed.

The next day, the order continued being processed.

Ship, damn it, ship, I urged.

Yes, it shipped, on 3/31. Hoorah! Here was the tracking number. They didn’t know when it would be delivered.

Have I mentioned that the requested one day shipping cost twice as much as the prescription?

For some reason, “The Wells Fargo Wagon” song from from The Music Man began providing me background music.

I faithfully tracked the shipment from Arizona to California, and then, by truck, from California up to Washington via DHL. The road from California to Washington is a little trail that we locals call I-5. It goes past my house by a few miles.

That irrational, crazy part of me screamed, “Why can’t they just pull over and toss it to me as they’re passing Ashland?” Yes, even the irrational part of me knows how dumb that suggestion is.

By April 2 I learned that my Tamsulosin would arrive on April 6. The plan was for DHL to truck it to Washington. DHL would hand it over to the USPS up there (I imagined a furtive, midnight exchange). Then the USPS would drive it down to Ashland (probably on I-5) and sneak it to a local carrier and deliver it to me.

Okay, a plan. I like having plans. Plans are good. Problem with this plan was that I’d run out of Tamsulosin on Friday, April 3. That was my last dose.

Well, damn. Not much could be done at that point. I’d tried, I consoled myself. Now my body would just need to endure without the med.

Meanwhile, the reasonable side of me said, “You prick.”

(It seems like an appropriate noun for the situation.)

“You should be thankful that there are people out there risking their health so that you can sit on your ass in the safety of your personal space. And be thankful that someone like Express Scripts exists and that you have a computer and Internet to place the order and follow the tracking information. Be thankful, you cretin, that the drugs are there, are so affordable, and that you have a urologist to help you. Stop looking at the dark side of this, you pessimistic, selfish, jerk, and think of the bigger picture and be fucking grateful.”

To which the other side of me said, “Wow. Mean.”

So, seriously, thanks to all the USPS, DHL, and Express Scripts drivers and people working and all they’re doing to help the rest of us survive. Let me not overlook all those healthcare professionals and government employees. We do appreciate it, even if some of us act like jerks.

Please forgive us for being who we are. We are trying to change. At least, one side of me is.

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